


Again and Again, Inadmissable

by voleuse



Category: The Great Library Series - Rachel Caine
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 02:47:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8950888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: Getting used to the way things are now and what you’re known for.If history can be rewritten, it will be repeated.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mihrsuri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mihrsuri/gifts).



> Set between the first two books.

**i. It wants a hammer, a mouthful of nails**  
Once divested of his students, Christopher Wolfe found his days fell into a particular rhythm. He woke in the morning, early--though never as early as Niccolo--and broke his fast in a luxury of stillness, with only birdsong and the creak of wagon wheels to disturb the groggy chaos of his thoughts. (This changed only if Niccolo expected an assignment, or, occasionally, a campaign. On those mornings, Wolfe woke when Nic woke him, for moments that felt stolen given the thrill and hush of them.) As the morning’s coffee offered a sweet jolt to his senses, he considered all the things he _could_ do, if given the opportunity.

If he could brave the opportunity. If he could do more than faintly sketch diagrams into the dust and sand by his feet--grand and glorious machines, as well as small and significant conveniences. He used a walking stick as his tool, dragging its iron tip through the dirt. (The stick had been a gift from his mother--quietly delivered to Nic’s quarters a few weeks after Wolfe had returned from the dead.) Most of the time, he abandoned his ideas soon after his coffee dwindled, but sometimes he idled with his schematics into the afternoon. Eventually, though, the fear grew too much, and he scuffed his work back into non-existence. 

Though, in some ways, he was _persona non grata_ to the Library, he hadn’t been barred from the archives themselves. On days when the fear was at its lowest ebb, he would venture to those gates. It was never quite comfortable--the ruby flash of surveillance was ever at the corner of his eye--but it was a comfort, to still have access to so much history, and so much potential.

(Much of what Wolfe still grappled with was the sense of confounding betrayal. Who loved the Library, the idea and promise of it, more than he? Who else had already forgiven it so much, at such a young age? And yet.)

After his hours of work, such as they were, Wolfe bent his time to the tasks of everyday maintenance: the planning of meals, the ordering of their home, the measuring of the time they spent together, when it was only them, and not their ideals, broken or otherwise. 

And in the evening, Nic returned home, his arrival a gift and a relief. They would break bread, drink wine, and talk. Idle things, much of the time: the vagaries of the market, the tumult of academic debate, the recalcitrance of those newly inducted into the High Garda.

“I saw them today, you know,” Nic said, one evening. “Wathen, and Brightwell.” 

Wolfe let the import of those names enliven the silence for a few moments. “Ah.”

“Ah.” Nic’s arm tightened around Wolfe’s shoulders, just a bit. “They’re doing well. As we expected of Wathen, certainly. Good with her squad, and rightly proud.”

“Indeed.” Wolfe allowed himself to bask in the glow of choosing rightly. “And Brightwell?”

Nic laughed, low. “He’s still here. And,” his voice dropped, “I think, determined to stay.”

Wolfe hummed, considering the implications of the words, the connotations invoked. _Still_. _Determined_. _Stay_. “I wish him well,” Wolfe said, finally. 

And Nic pulled him closer, as if to hold him there, in granted peace.

 **ii. a wan motto: no one was supposed to get hurt**  
One morning found Wolfe entering the gates of the Iron Tower, with only the vaguest sense of why he had turned toward it at all. Though, of course, the automatons stared down at him balefully, and the High Garda, even more so, he was permitted entrance and quick ascension.

Wolfe drifted towards the gardens, the lush scent of blossoming green awakening the tamped-down longing he still possessed, of a child yearning for his home. 

“Wolfe?” The inquiry was sharp, and the voice familiar. He turned to face Morgan Hault, and her expression, perhaps, mirrored his own. “Are you here to--” She broke off and shook her head. “Why are you here?”

He twisted his hand slightly, in a gesture of dismissal. “I didn’t expect to see you--”

“Unshackled?” Morgan said, her fingers tense as she touched her collar. Then she let her hand slide down her torso to rest below her heart. “Unencumbered?” 

The reproach was heavy in her voice; he had no answer for it. He looked down, away.

She continued. “Are you familiar with Valentine, the Obscurist?”

“Yes,” Wolfe said, nodding. Wishing he hadn’t, wishing he didn’t know how the story would end. “He was vital to the archives, in those early days. Some of the earliest work in transmutation was done by his hand. And then,” he came to a stop, reluctant.

“And then he shared more than they thought proper,” Morgan said, her intonation harsh. “And then he shared in secret, using his skills to send messages that weren’t archived, and weren’t seen. But they caught the woman he had been communicating with, and then--”

“And then he disappeared.” Wolfe, without thinking, clutched a hand to his chest. Right above where his scars were hidden. 

Morgan opened her mouth to say more, but then her gaze darted past him, and she stepped back, once, then again. Wolfe nodded farewell, and behind him, his mother called out, softly.

“Christopher,” the Obscurist Magnus said. She drew close. Reached her hand out, then pulled it back. “I’d hoped to see you today.”

Wolfe knew he should smile, but he didn’t. Couldn’t.

He remembered, then: it was his birthday.

 **iii. repairs forever in the offing**  
It was already the edge of twilight when Wolfe returned to their quarters. Through the window, he could see the glows were lit--Nic was, for once, home before he was. As he entered their home, he breathed deep, cheered by the scent of mulled wine, and of fresh bread and honey. 

Nic emerged from their bedroom, clothed in a silken robe instead of his uniform. His smile was brighter than the beeswax candles set upon the table, and warmer than their flame. 

In two strides, Wolfe was sliding his arms around Nic, and in three moments, he was kissing him. When they stopped to catch their breath, Nic reached up and brushed Wolfe’s hair out of his eyes. “I missed you,” he said, simply.

Wolfe drew him close, till he could feel the thump of Nic’s heart. “I’m always here,” he said, and Nic’s heartbeat was steady, and strong.

**Author's Note:**

> Title, summary, and headings adapted from Karen Solie’s “You Never Know.”


End file.
